Nil Admirari (Collaboration w Villians-doitbetter)
by Malakaii
Summary: It is the year 1894 for French doctor Claude Frollo. Working as a surgeon at Hôtel-Dieu de Paris, Frollo is no stranger to death or gore. However, a harsh winter encases Paris and subsequently, his wife passes. Feeling as if his Paris home is closing in on him, he makes an escape to the countryside where his brother, an alienist, works at an asylum. Fresme/DoctorxPatient
1. Prelude

_My dearest brother,_

 _It pains me to write this letter, but I fear what the future awaits me if I don't. I am sending you my most absolute condolences for your loss. No man should ever have to bury his wife, this I am most certain._

 _A long winter awaits us, I'm sure you know. With that being said, I think it would benefit us greatly if you came to Beynac-et-cazenac until winter passes. My heart is at ill ease being apart from you during these trying times and as your only remaining family, I wish to be there for you as you heal._

 _Please consider my offer. Perhaps we can finally share a Christmas together._

 _With love, your brother-_

 _J. Frollo_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Had this floating around in my head for a while, I had to get it down sooner or later. This is CO WRITTEN between myself and this amazing girl, villains-doitbetter. I'm having a ton of fun with it. It's my first time co-writing with another. The chapters are blended with my writing alongside hers. I don't think you can really differentiate the two, but if you can, good on you. I hope yall enjoy!_**


	2. I

**Co-written with villains-doitbetter**

* * *

Claude Frollo had read the letter once. A man can read " _bury"_ and " _his wife_ " only so many times. The effort to read the letter alone was arduous enough.

Staring down at the unfolded letter, his reading glasses began to blur. It was then he realized his eyes were welling with tears. He blinked, allowing them to fall into small blots upon the parchment. The ink blurred while the memories defined.

Melody, his housekeeper, was still waiting for her next order at the door. Had she noticed him crying? He wasn't certain.

Clearing his throat, Claude staunched his emotions like an extinguished flame, pinching the bridge of his nose in attempt to feign exhaustion, but really to wipe his tears.

"Very well," he sighed, sitting up in his leather chair. "Write a correspondence. Tell him I'll be taking my leave soon enough. Have Kitty help you with my wardrobe and Mr. Collins will load them into the coach if they are too heavy. I want everything packed. Everything." If he agreed to wait until winter passed before returning to Paris, he would need to make means for himself. Perhaps a village doctor, delivering babies or cooling the common fever. He'd think of something.

"Yes sir," Melody replied in her tiny voice as she curtsied before leaving the study.

He took this moment of solitude to remove his glasses and scrub his face with his hand. Tiresome as he was, he needed away from this house and this city, no less. It pained him to reside here within the walls, to stare out the window of streets he and his wife strolled together, or to gaze upon the river where he watched her count ducklings and small fish.

The lot of the area around him was stained with these images. Happy ones. Hilarious ones. Solemn in others when they were unable to conceive. How was he supposed to recover when everything around him ripped him open again? Though he hadn't eaten in hours, his stomach churned and twisted. He feared he may be sick with grief.

By midday the housekeeper and her maids had readied Claude for his travels. His traps were stacked neatly within the rear boot and tied down to withstand the jostling of the journey.

Having dressed into a warmer and more suitable attire of black and a plum colored tie, he settled himself into the cargo after alerting the driver their destination.

Before they could embark, Melody, as incessant as she was, came bursting from the front porch with a heap of fur in her arms.

"Monsieur!" she called, rushing towards the coach, "For comfort!"

She beamed as she opened the door to his coach, and threw the rug across his lap.

"How thoughtful," Claude muttered, allowing her to tend to him. It was certain the drive would be a frigid one. Claude was so desperate to leave he hadn't taken in account comfort amidst the cold.

"Safe travels, Monsieur." Melody wished, stepping back to shut the door. She returned to the steps and began to wave him goodbye.

Claude nodded curtly, waiting until his manor was out of sight before throwing the rug onto the opposite bench. This act of consideration was done innumerable times to his wife, the gentler of the two. And it panged him for Melody to remind him of that.

Now, he not only needed to escape Paris, but his staff as well. He could hear them reminiscing about his beloved to themselves, wrenching again at his heart to remember.

Glaring tearfully at the bundle of fox fur, he thought of Mr. Collins, his driver. The driver's box was opened to the elements and far more unforgiving by all account.

After careful consideration, he decided he'd give the large pelt when they made their first stop to grease the hubs.

Only because it was something Myriam would do.

* * *

Beynac-et-Cazenac was a southward trek, approximately five hundred and fifty kilometers from his establishment.

Having never been to his brother's estate of practice, it was a far stretch from Paris which, he knew, was replete of people, businesses, and every possible convenience available. Beynac could very well be of the same magnitude, though Claude doubted it, considering the breadth he was having to make to reach the estate. He knew only very little of the area. For example, he knew it was well within the countryside and hugged the banks of Dordogne river. To that, the extent of his knowledge. His brother only briefly described his home— _A little piece of Eden,_ by his words.

After several days en route, Claude finally reached the outskirts of Beynac-et-Cazenac to its rolling hills, crowned with trees that would have billowed in the breeze had they been in full bloom. Regretfully Claude waited until winter to grace himself the long needed company of the countryside, but winter could not steal away its charm. The sight, even amidst a time of decay, was still beautiful to behold.

As expected, he saw the river, wide but not rabid, follow the winding migration around a craggy cliff. The crest of the cliff held a most impressive chateau. Claude wasn't aware of any noble families within the area and sat back bemused with wonder. Perhaps the hearing of his arrival would grant him a visit to whomever resided within the stone walls, he hoped.

The driver steered off from the small town, following a dirt road hemmed with barren trees coated in fresh snow. The birch trees lined the side like soldiers standing watch as the carriage rattled and groaned down the worn path and beyond that, straight ahead was a building of pale stone and dark roofing.

Claude had finally reached the asylum.

* * *

Chateau Beynac was in bedlam.

Not administratively, Jehan thought, not yet at least, but most certainly in the morgue.

 _The blood. The sloppy incisions. The inability in it all._

Despite that he took the necessary precautions, he still had stains on his frock coat. Unnoticeable by the lot, but nevertheless, still a problem and improprietous. Such work seemed to prove so inconveniently messy.

A death with a lunatic asylum was expected.

Whether an old bird finally made its last song or a chick, living too fast and carelessly, meeting an untimely demise.

It was really all the same for Jehan, the institution's lead alienist.

Glancing between hands sooted in coagulated cold blood, he grimaced.

Then casually glanced at his pocket watch, almost marring it with the mess among his hands.

His brother, a renowned Parisian surgeon, was en route to Jehan's estate. The thought alone stirred giddiness and wonder. Things would go much smoothly with the companionship of his elder, and only, brother. And given the state he would be in, he would have no qualms in assisting Jehan in his _endeavors._

Another wave of elation sent his heart soaring into the heavens.

Stepping back from the operation, he sighed satisfactorily.

 _It was time to clean up._

 _Claude would be arriving soon._


	3. II

Jehan stepped out from the heavily engraved wooden door of Chateau Beynac. The dawn greeted him with a frigid kiss as he sought the sound migrating towards the asylum. Perching atop the stairs, Jehan spotted the coach led by two massive black horses trotting side by side. He could see the thick billows of breath chuff out from their noses as they neared.

It was a quiet morning in Beynac. As quiet as an asylum could ever be as long as there were occupants within. He hoped Claude would understand that it _was_ a mental institution, and many of his subjects would _not_ be as still and silent as his own patients beneath the scalpel.

The coach reached the break in trees that opened into a circular drive, centered with a fountain of cherubs and a scarcely clad maiden, which was frozen over by winter.

Jehan waited until it came to a still and the driver settled his reigns before taking the steps and approaching the side door. It came open before he reached the handle and there, his elder brother with his perpetual glare awaited him.

"It's great to have you back here, Claude!" He almost sang as his brother stepped out.

With that, the curly-haired young man locked his stern-faced brother in a tight embrace, the latter not showing much interest in the gesture. Around the two gentlemen, the subordinates began retrieving his belongings to take inside.

"Careful with that!" Claude barked at the servants unloading a trunk from the horse-drawn coach. "Unless you are prepared to pay for the damages, you will use the utmost caution!" Obediently, they nodded as they lifted the container down.

"Thank you again for your hospitality, Jehan," Claude said, barely patting his brother on the shoulder in response. "It truly means the world to me."

"Of course! I think your little stay in Beynac is just what the doctor ordered!" Jehan remarked with a jovial laugh. "Get it?" He nudged his brother in the ribs, who only glanced down his crooked nose at him. Jehan easily dropped all the formality of his letter as soon as Claude stepped out, resuming his familiar lax and casual spirit.

"Just take that up to his room," Jehan instructed as his employees trudged past the two inside to the young man's chateau. Claude silently studied his brother's property as the air of Beynac-et-Cazenac blew through his steely gray hair. Ivy vines crept up along the walls of it, tendrils curling whimsically at the ends. From the top of the long, slanted hill, Claude had a perfect view of Dordogne River. But such beauty meant little to him, for his heart was still as heavy as it had been since he left Paris.

"Come on in," Jehan said, pulling Claude out of his trance and into the house. Inside, Claude took little notice of the interior, apart from the old furniture and grand staircase, the estate was rather appealing. Nurses bowed their heads at him and Jehan while the former took in the delicate colored vestibule and winding staircase that clung to the surrounding walls, leading both doctors and nurses upwards to several other levels.

When Claude's eyes lifted, following the curling banister, he thought he spotted several patients leaning over the railings to peer down at the newcomer.

"Your room's up the stairs, third floor, last door on the right," he informed Claude, who absent-mindedly removed his black topcoat. Jehan looked at his ashen brother.

"Upstairs?" Claude guffawed incredulously. "Where are the patients?"

"There are wings that house more proper patients, but they remain on the west wing. You, my dear brother, will remain on the east. There's a lock on the corridor door if that helps. Follow me," Jehan said, making his way up the stairs with Claude silently following him.

Jehan led Claude to what appeared to be his study, which was filled with books that looked rather untouched and most certainly forgotten.

"Make yourself at home," Jehan said, tossing his own coat over some armchair.

Claude took a seat on the sofa opposite, blankly staring down at the stone floor.

"Here. You look like absolute hell," Jehan instructed, handing his brother a glass, instantly recognizing it as gin. Claude looked down glumly at his drink, feeling uneasy.

"Here's to Miryam." Jehan raised his glass, Claude narrowing his dark gray eyes at his younger brother. "She was a wonderful woman, gone too soon."

"Hear, hear," Claude's low voice muttered, clinking his glass with Jehan before downing their drinks in unison.

After a brief silence, Jehan rested his empty glass down on his desk and remarked, "I have to say, I'm surprised you took me up on the offer to come down here."

Claude shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat, toying with the ring on his left index finger. "Well, Paris…" he solemnly began. "It became too overwhelming—too suffocating, to be quite honest."

"Grief is a funny thing, Claude." Jehan sat down in his armchair, resting the bottle of gin on the small parlor table adjacent him and readjusting his tie.

"Then I fail to see the humor in it." Claude shot his brother an icy look, feeling sick again.

"People handle it in different ways. Some men might choose to be eaten away by their sorrow, languishing pitifully, or wallowing in it. Some might choose to completely turn themselves over to God to relieve their pain."

"I did!" Claude snapped, one hand tightening into a fist. "I prayed day and night as I sat by her bedside! And after...I begged God to alleviate the pain. But I haven't given up faith just yet!" He could feel the wellspring of anger and loss threatening to break into an all-out emotional eruption. But he could not let his younger brother see him break, especially when he hadn't been here five minutes.

"Hang on a minute!" Jehan quickly instructed, hoping to calm his brother. "Let me finish! Another way men might handle their loss...is by immersing themselves in their work."

Claude breathed deeply, steadying himself from the sudden onslaught of emotion. "I couldn't resume work back home. I told you already, the city holds too many reminders. One finds it quite difficult to get any work done with memories lingering around every corner."

Standing back up Jehan took the bottle and refilled both their glasses. "Maybe you need a change of venue."

Taking a sip of his drink, Claude pondered his younger brother's words. Despite Jehan's pleading, blue eyes, Claude could only answer, "I'm not entirely sure I should resume my practice so soon."

"Come on, Claude!" Jehan begged, meandering over to his desk. "If you really wish to move on, you might as well put your nose to the grindstone again. I could use a seasoned doctor here at the asylum. What do you say?"

He watched his elder brother mull over the thought. His thin lips pursed and turned to the side. He remembered Claude doing such a manner during their adolescence and Jehan would mimic the quirk for jeering reasons. But now, he felt sorry for the lad, however minuscule. If he badgered Claude like back in their youth, he knew Claude would be well disinclined. Besides, they were both grown men now. It was time they took means to make themselves men of legends, and what made a better team than one of brothers? Albeit, the asylum was a delicate and fickle place. They had an established a rhythm here, and soon, that would be in disarray once more when the easily disturbed patients caught whiff of a surgeon's arrival. It would take weeks to return to the calm waters, but nonetheless, chaos was an opportune time for tumultuous antics.

Jehan leaned against his heavy oakwood desk, crossing an arm over the chest and examining the contents of his glass.

Claude sighed and muttered, "Say that I do," he paused, "Aid you in with my practice. What are the procedures you require here at this madhouse? Bloodletting? Electrotherapy? Do you even have the means for a second surgeon?"

Jehan perked up. "Why, yes, we do. I have a operating room with just about every device imaginable. I don't need to tell you that accidents happen more than enough around here, and a physician would be nice. Someone to set their bones, perhaps stitches."

"Both of those are trivial arts, if arts at all, Jehan. I'm not some country doctor. I'm a _surgeon._ " Claude swelled his chest and glared down his hard hooked nose. "Do you have anything better for me to do? Births, amputations, serious wounds—cases more up to par with my expertise, perhaps?"

Jehan withstood the desire to grin like a plotting fool. He settled with a haughty smile and said, "I am quite certain. Here, allow me to give you a tour of the estate."

And with that, the men polished off their remaining gin and headed down the west wing.

* * *

Esmeralda was in the asylum's day room with her fingers hovering over the ivory keys. Typically, she played through the heart, whether joyfu. She didn't know anything peculiar songs to play but nothing seemed to fit the heart. Unless she decided Yankee Doodle a fitting piece this early of the day.

Next to her, watching carefully and quietly, her dearest companion: Quasimodo, a poor soul burdened with deformity at birth. He'd come to Beynac near the end of spring some years ago as only a child with a mop of red hair and eyes filled with fear. She knew, as well as the rest of the institution, that he had been born wrong. In less than a day, she had taken him under her wing. Not because she needed the company but to end the abuse and the berating from the residents, including the staff. She'd never seen such degrees of prejudices. The very thing that had Esmeralda institutionalized. Her kindness, compassion, and to be frank, her complexion had struck an unlucky chord between her and the locals of Beynac. They judged her for the way she looked like they judged Quasimodo without a second's thought or an mote of compassion.

 _Witch._

 _Sorceress._

 _Enchantress._

 _Satan's whore._

She'd heard it all.

Her husband discarded her like a faulty boon or an unlucky trinket. He allowed the gossiping and the false rumors to fester from the delicate, fear mongering women socialites. The moment he introduced her as his betrothed, she saw their smiles falter and their goodhearted demeanor lessen. She was not like them and soon thereafter, she paid. She was shunned, much like Quasimodo, so it was only natural for her to protect him from the same subjection. If she could alleviate even a little of the pain on his behalf, she would. The patients of Beynac also assumed she was unholy, even for the secular ones. To them, Esmeralda was something otherworldly, something that crawled its way out of hell and took human form. She didn't correct them and allowed their unstable minds to run rampant. In the end, it was advantageous for both Quasimodo and herself.

Word of her death came shortly after, but it was clear she was far from dead and simply hidden away to repair her husband's social standing.

Consumption, they claimed. They probably all pictured her laid out on a cold cell floor, coughing up blood before she perished, much to their God-fearing relief. The witch had finally been taken by the grace of the Lord, and would no longer be a threat to their so-called morale.

But here she was.

Hidden away to die alone but not forgotten.

He had promised to come back for her when the time was right, but now that she was here, away from the slander and the cruelty, she didn't want to go back. She certainly didn't want to remain _here_ though, sane and imprisoned under the care of Dr. Jehan Frollo. But returning to her husband was entirely out of the question.

Her eyes lowered to the glittering stone along her ring finger and she wondered why on earth she still wore it.

Perhaps to ward off the affections of the asylum's lead alienist, Dr. Frollo. He knew why she was here, but to what degree? She wondered if he knew her husband had sent her here under a nasty rumor by a group of catty, jealous women. She prayed not. If he thought her insane, the better.

The mention of him alone sent a cold tremor through her. She saw his cold eyes in her mind when he would look at her with a dark hunger. His advances came and went. Some more aggressive and cross than others, but there was always Stella to take the brunt of his carnal desires.

Along her back, she felt the warm paw of Quasimodo pat her. It helped her mind focus, bringing her back and away from the ill memories. She was too focused on herself. Quasimodo had far worse encounters his entire life.

It always pained Esmeralda to see him struggle, no matter the transgression. Though he was hideous, no doubt, in the same sense he was beautiful. He possessed an innocence and perseverance unparalleled. Albeit, the doctor himself was not above making a mockery of her friend.

 _Caliban himself would flee in terror if he saw that face!_ The reference was lost on Quasimodo, but still felt the sting from such an insult. Esmeralda herself felt her blood boil a tad when she thought that the very man charged with their care, found amusement at his patients' expense.

With that, the song came to her and the soft melancholy rifts of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata filled the bright day room. Every pressed key had patience and the delicate notes came to her will, filling the air like a fragrance. Quasimodo leaned until their shoulders brushed. She closed her eyes and pictured herself somewhere far from these barren hills and prison walls.

There were other occupants within the day room, yes.

There was Lilibeth, who had taken the linens from her bedroom and brought them so that she could fabricate a nest in the corner. When asked, not that it mattered much, she'd say: _She likes the way the light shines through the white sheets. She feels as if she's in heaven._ A young girl with an innocent imagination, but not mad.

Nevertheless, there she was in one of the corners of the day room, a bundle of cotton with tendrils of dark hair spilling out from beneath. She did no harm and was quite lovely to talk to. Most left her to her corner and wad of sheets.

Then there was the twins, Royal and Robin. Handsome lads, but mute. Apparently, they spoke only to each other and far out of earshot so that there may be no witnesses to this. Esmeralda had never heard them utter a single word and neither have the nurses. Perhaps through telepathical approaches or with their hands, she wasn't sure. Or they were just deaf and the rest were just rumors.

She continued to play while Quasi watched her fingers dance over the keys, feeling ever strike and chord resonate through her bones. She wondered if Quasimodo felt it as well. She hoped. They were similar on many addresses.

A small, pretty redhead began to pirouette to the ascension and crescendo of Esmeralda's playing. Stella, an improprietous girl from far north.

 _A nymphomaniac_ , the nurses claimed. She had slept with both twins at the same time and even still, neither spoke. Esmeralda asked out of queer curiosity.

Then suddenly Stella stopped dancing for the day room and shot an alarming look towards the open door across the way.

Beyond the carillon, Esmeralda could hear what caught the girl's attention; footsteps from down the corridor. Clipping. Fast. Voices of deep baritone and muffled laughter that didn't ring true for the mad. It was intentional and genuine. Nothing like the startling eruption of a madman's cackle.

Looking up from the piano as her fingers continued to flutter over the keys, she spotted the grandfather clock.

Noon.

The nurses didn't return for another quarter hour which meant it was the alienist making his rounds, but with whom else? She knew everything about everyone here at Chateau Beynac, unfortunately. Every voice—whether it was a laugh or a cry—she even recognized each patient and nurse's footsteps .

By her side, Quasimodo also turned in investigation while Esmeralda closed her eyes and continued to play, disregarding the discord that followed her rhythm of her fingertips.

Something was off. She had lost her concentration.

Focusing harder, her brow furrowed and she fumbled over the keys with minimal elegance and accomplishment, but the song still rang out, though having abandoned that intimate hum that usually accompanied her as she played.

Then a large hand, encompassed hers, interrupting her thread of notes with a startling dissonant and she shot a look towards Quasi with cold question.

 _Why would he ruin her song for him?_

He wasn't looking at her, but towards the black-clad man standing next to Jehan.


	4. III

Despite the reason for such a place, Claude was pleased to find that Jehan established good means for himself and the asylum's residents. The estate's upkeep was clean and orderly, compared to the horror-shows of other asylums he had witnessed. The faculty, just the same. The only thing that troubled him was the free reign granted to a number of the patients.

Of course, the more disturbed were kept away under lock and key. It still put him at ill ease to see how accessible he was to his lessers. In Paris, he'd seen one too many incidents of subordinates turning on their superiors. None had ended to the favor of the latter.

 _Doctors whose faces had been mauled by near-cannibalistic patients; asphyxiated by bottles of opioids; some whose patients had gotten a hold of the lancet, slitting their caretaker's throat..._ He had seen it all.

As they walked, conversing the proverbial matters of medicine and madness, Claude could hear the carillon of a piano, as faint as it was. As Jehan went on regarding daily schedules and nightly patrols, Claude cocked his head ever-so-slightly to the side, straining to recognize the tune. Eventually he stopped listening to Jehan entirely, but the man kept rambling as he always did.

Claude, interrupting his sibling, asked. "Do your nurses play for their patients?" The idea appeared queer to him if they had. What good did music do for subjects with so much chaos in their heads? Mad enough as they were, the tune might just aggravate the chaos in their heads.

Jehan sighed, appearing suddenly annoyed that the subject had changed. "Unfortunately, no. After all, their job is to keep these crackpots in check, not entertain them. That's one of my charges—another patient."

Claude lifted his brow, surprised by the answer. "Quite the accomplishment for one with such a mental state, don't you agree?"

"Perhaps," Jehan grumbled. "She's one of the more cunning patients of mine. She and this misshapen thing she treats as a pet are normally found in the day room. Care to see?"

"The pet or the day room?"

Jehan smirked. "This way."

When the duo reached the opened double doors, they caught the last twirls of a dancing patient. Her feet were bare, Claude noted, and her chemise was stained with a medley of soot that made him grimace.

"And this," Jehan said, "Is the day room. There are hours set, obviously. If we kept it open all hours of the day, the nurses would never get any work done. There's chess. A piano, as you can see."

"Don't you offer activities such as crafts, perhaps?" Claude asked, taking in the bland atmosphere. The room was startling white with windows lining the left and right walls. The sunlight accompanying its pale appearance cast a glare that almost blinded Claude. Squinting, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Airy and scarcely furnished, the room offered very little appeal to the keen eye. He presumed the lunatics barely took heed to this. With such clamor in their thoughts, how could they?

"Well, a couple of the nurses once tried to teach them the art of knitting," Jehan began. "At least then they might be able to make themselves a scarf or something instead of waiting for the next shipment of secondhand clothes. But...let's just say that giving a few lunatics long, sharp needles is a decision we _won't_ repeat. So we keep the number of activities to a minimum."

Claude scanned the common area, committing every patient to memory. The elderly woman, blind in both eyes, confined to her wheelchair to identical twins nearest a window.

But what caught Claude's attention forthwith was a brute of a young man perched on the piano bench. There was an evident deformity in his anatomy, that took no doctor to see for themselves. His back was curved high, as if he carried a large mountain for a spine. The shoulders were canted abnormally and he could see the knotted protrusion above the creature's eye even from across the space.

Was he the pianist Claude had heard just moments before? As soon as he met Claude's eyes, he quickly, but subtly, attempted to hide his face with his large hands.

 _Rightly so,_ Claude thought. The poor thing was hard to look upon without grimace.

What little noise remained in the room was a muttering bundle of sheets off in the corner with pieces of dark hair spilling out. The dancer had stopped to stare like every other soul in the room. For being mentally ill, they were oddly silent which made Claude terribly uncomfortable. Usually the mad never ceased in their chattering, either with each other or their invisible companions (and enemies.) He assumed there'd be a litany of clamor and havoc at all hours of the day, but alas, it was as still as a grave.

Whispering, Claude asked, "Is it normally this quiet?" He feared speaking too soon and too loud. Sudden noises and motion was always a trigger to catastrophe.

"It varies," Jehan chirped. "Nothing to worry about though. They know who's in charge, and the consequences for disobedience. Now let me show you where we conduct our therapy sessions."

As they turned to leave, Claude paused, allowing Jehan to drift ahead. As he did so, he witnessed the room visibly relax.

The coy dancer returned to her pirouetting, throwing a smile across her face as she elegantly meandered around the room, despite there being no music. The muttering bundle of sheets suddenly sat up, revealing the thing beneath it: a doe-eyed pale, little girl. The beast was now braving a small peak back towards Claude, still shielding his misshapen face.

Then a smaller figure leaned into Claude's scope of vision, a woman. Like the whispering bundle, her hair was a black as night but it was her green eyes that startled him. He found the culprit responsible for the music _and_ with the same token, found her pet.

Claude felt himself studying the two as they returned back to their original intentions, ignoring whomever stood at the entrance of the day room. They were conversing beyond earshot while a set of male twins stood and made a quick leave.

Claude stepped aside to allow them to brush past him, but kept his focus on the girl and her extreme counterpart. He found is singular, at best.

Down the corridor, Claude heard Jehan calling for him.

* * *

 **Villain and I would like to thank the reviews from LDasstrich, TheVilainsAdvocate (cool name!) and kahlandkahlessi!**


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